On My Own
Chapter 1
Lieutenant Craig Garrison stood at the head of the briefing table surveying the four men before him. Their looks were a mixture of interest, suspicion and feigned boredom. Actor, used to facing his mark and using subterfuge to get what he wanted was always up for the challenge. What Casino thought was less easy to read. His body posture said boredom but his eyes were narrowed with suspicion. As the one man used to working in a group, he expected problems, in fact he looked for them. Having dealt with people of less than stellar credentials in the loyalty or the morals departments, he knew betrayal and he expected it, if not within his new team then from their boss's boss.
Goniff looked uncertain. The man who loved fun had been told the risks and the dangers but he had signed on anyway. Whether he had under estimated the danger or this was better than prison, Garrison would never know. He was here now and even after facing the reality of this life he was still here, his loyalty to the team prevented him from backing out. He looked confident, but he was just as accomplished at hiding his worries. He was never enthusiastic but then he wasn't backing out either.
Chief was easier to read. He was committed. He rarely spoke, usually looking uninterested but he was taking it all in. Occasionally he offered an opinion but given the plan and the order to go he would carry it out to the best of his abilities. He was dependable.
They were an oddball team but they were his.
"This is a one man operation." He held up his hand to stop the objections he saw coming. "An agent needs extraction. In and out."
"Another piece of cake, huh Warden."
Garrison ignored Chief's comment. The last 'piece of cake' had seen the two of them almost caught and Chief shot in the leg.
"One man alone is too risky," said Actor. "The two of us have a better chance."
"You need someone to watch your back," added Chief.
"Duly noted and you are right," he said turning to acknowledge the input. "Unfortunately there is only space for one on the transport."
"What're you going in on, a mosquito?" asked Casino sarcastically.
"I would suggest a Hawker," put in Actor. "A Mosquito seats…"
"I mean, a real one, the blood sucking one."
"That's enough," said the voice of authority.
"Look on the bright side," started Goniff.
"No." The voice was still in authority mode and he glared at each man. "You will stay right here. You got that?"
"Aw, come on, Warden. With you off… why shouldn't we…"
"Because if, no, when you get into trouble there will be no one to bail you out. You are well known to the locals so that means you come to the attention of HQ."
"And they'll leave us in lockup 'til you return," finished Casino, rolling his eyes.
"Johns will leave you, just not in the local." That got their attention. "Stay put and stay out of trouble."
"How long do you think you will be?"
Had Actor asked this out of curiosity or to change the subject? The man was good.
"I don't know, but I leave in an hour."
Garrison changed into his civilian clothes, gave last minute instructions to the Sargent Major and got into the jeep. He could have accepted the pickup but taking the jeep meant it was no longer available to his men to use for their jaunts into town or a trip to London There was still the truck but he knew it was low on petrol and a lot more conspicuous than a jeep. The building's owner's car was in the garage and though the Sargent Major had the keys that meant nothing to the accomplished car thieves in his team. He had long ago taken the precaution of removing the distributor wire and the rotor. It was not going to start. Chief had probably already noticed the parts missing. Sadly he realized all they had to do was steal the necessary parts. Sad to say, yes his men would do that. Maybe he should remove something else. Too late, he had to leave.
The Lieutenant drove to the airbase, parked the jeep and walked to the briefing tent where the he meet up with the rest of the passengers. They were part of the Tactical crew with the Twelfth Air Force being delivered to the new Air Base near Lecce in Southern Italy. He was tagging along and would be flown in to his destination from there.
Some anxious looks were exchanged when they heard there was a storm centred over southeastern Italy. Many planes could fly over a storm but landings and takeoffs within a storm added extra risk. The briefing was delayed while the weather watches tracked the storm.
The crew and passengers trooped over to the Mess tent for coffee and cigarettes. The men knew not to ask details but the normal way for men confined to an area to pass the time was in conversation.
"Frankie Basso, Twelfth Air Force, Tactical," said the Second Lieutenant, a dark haired, blue eyed youngster.
"Garrison, OSS."
"Yeah? You been there long?"
"A while." He did not like the scrutiny but he did not want to be rude either,
"I thought you guys worked as a team, you know, not solo."
"I usually do." He felt like Chief with his one word answers. Was this why he did it?
"So, how'd you get into this? You ask for a transfer?"
This was going too far. "No. I was asked." He said it in his 'end of discussion' tone that usually worked on his men. To reinforce this he got up and went to the door. As he left he heard someone's comment that, 'it must be nerves'. He was not nervous but he was concerned, not about the mission but about his men back at their base. They had a bad habit of not obeying orders.
Time to put that out of his mind and concentrate on the job at hand. He had a mission to carry out.
Finally they were on their way. Being the last to board Garrison was assured of a seat near the door. That plus the noise of the engines prevented any conversation. The weather over England was clear with scattered cumulus clouds so the flight was smooth. It was not until they were closer to Italy before the pilot began to run into the storm clouds. The descent started out smoothly but quickly became rough as they flew through the clouds. Garrison was a pilot and a seasoned flyer but even he was becoming concerned. Even the best pilot could crash under these conditions. The slightest delay or miscalculation could mean death.
A hard bump followed by lift and another bump meant they were finally down. After a short taxi they came to a stop. The rest of the passengers disembarked then Garrison went forward. He knew the answer but he had to ask.
"I assume the next leg is on hold?" From the cockpit he could see the rain falling in sheets with the angle varying from fifteen to twenty degrees. He was glad he wasn't the one flying and he expected the pilot and co-pilot wished they weren't either. As if on cue the radio came to life ordering the pilot to shut down. The co-pilot acknowledged and they began the shutdown routine as the Lieutenant headed for the door. He would have to go to the Base Commander's Office.
"Lieutenant Garrison reporting, Sir."
Colonel Diluca was not a big man but he had an air of authority. Standing only five foot nine he had wide shoulders and a barrel chest. His face was battle scared but there was no mistaking the intelligence in his dark brown eyes.
"Come in. I know you're anxious to get there but I can't afford to lose man nor plane."
"Understood Sir."
"I've ordered word to be sent that you're stranded here and I'll let you know as soon as I hear back. In the meantime you might as well make yourself at home. Speaking of home, it's a new base so we have none of the amenities of home so you'll have to make do with what we have. You passed the Mess on your way here. Out and to the left are the barracks. See the Quarter Master for a bunk."
"Any word on the weather?"
"Stalled. That's all I can get. You'll just have to wait it out like the rest of us."
"Thank you Sir."
Back out in the rain Garrison ran to the Mess. First order was coffee and a cigarette then maybe food.
An hour later a young private wearing a rain poncho approached his table.
"Lieutenant Garrison?"
"Yes."
"Commander Diluca wants to see you."
"Thank you Private." He got up and grinned as the soldier pulled out and extra poncho and handed it to him. Pulling it on he followed the Private, hoping for good news.
"The winds have dropped but visibility is too low for a flight. We do have a local fisherman willing to take you north but you will have to make your way from where ever he can land you. It's your call."
Garrison's immediate reaction was yes but the Commander's tone gave him pause. If he was confident he would have just set it up and told him to go. Letting Garrison decide was telling him that there was a good chance that this was riskier than a drop. The Commander would have had a lot of experience sending men to their deaths in battle, battles that were hoped to shorten or even end the war. Did he feel this mission was not important? Is that why he refused to make this an order? Or was there something else? Did he not trust the fisherman? Was that it?
"I'd like to meet him first." The look on the Commander's face meant he had made the right decision. Don't trust the fisherman. He wished Actor was here. He was a professional at reading people and as much as he trusted himself it was always good to have a second opinion. Being a native Italian would probably help too. With his second back in England, he would have to make the call.
It was late afternoon, though the thick cloud cover made it look later, when Garrison was taken to the harbour at San Cataldo to meet Drago, the fisherman. He was told that the man spoke limited English, though it was thought he understood more than he admitted.
As Garrison approached the wharf Drago stepped off his boat and waited. He was a short thin man with thick black hair that hung over his brows. With his hat pulled low Garrison could not read his eyes. How important was this mission? With the Italians severing their ties with the Germans, was the agent still in danger, or was this the reason he needed extracting? Garrison could just report that he was delayed and wait out the storm. He had a legitimate excuse.
An excuse, that was what it was, an excuse for not carrying out his mission. He was an Officer and he didn't accept or give excuses. And what if the agent was captured or killed while he sat here with his excuse? He refused to take that chance.
"You can take me north?"
"Si. Ci lasciamo ora. We go now."
"Yes." He was committed. Nodding his thanks to the Corporal who had driven him to the harbour he boarded the fishing vessel.
The two headed for the wheelhouse. Garrison had seen the sea when he had arrived and it looked rough. He was an airman. He knew clouds and altitude and shear winds and although he had been on many ships he did not know the sea. Was it safe to head out? The fisherman, Drago, seemed to think it was safe. He had his doubts.
Out of the shelter of the coast the winds picked up and the little boat began to roll and buck as it hit the waves. Turning into the wind helped with the roll but still the bow rose and fell. Garrison was not prone to seasickness but the rise and fall with the constantly shifting horizon was disconcerting. At least the engine sounded steady.
With the driving rain and low clouds it did not take long for the land to disappear. The expression on the Italian's face had not changed so hopefully he knew what he was doing.
"How much farther?" he asked.
The answer was not encouraging. "Little longer."
Was he being vague because of the language or was he unsure where they were? There were no instruments other than a compass but Garrison knew there were people who just seemed to know where they were. Chief was like that. He claimed he wasn't a tracker yet when they hid their equipment he was always able to lead them right back to it. Goniff had said he was like a 'ruddy squirrel'.
All Garrison could do was hold on, both literally and figuratively. He continued to scan the horizon in hopes of seeing land. Maybe if they were closer the sea would not be as rough.
A gust of wind caught the bow and Drago spun the wheel to correct. It took a moment before he had the course corrected but Garrison saw something change. He heard it too. Drago looked worried. Was it the engine? The sound had changed. There was still the steady throb but something was missing. Another wave broke over the bow splashing almost to the wheelhouse windows. Drago make another correction as he peered out the rain streaked glass. Was he looking for land too?
Then another thought. With the sea this rough how were they to land? Images of shipwrecks came to mind. He had survived combat, jumped out of airplanes and held up under torture at the hands of the enemy. Was he to die in a shipwreck?
A large wave appeared degrees to port and Drago swung the wheel to meet the face. The bow buried then rose shaking off the water but when it hit the crest the wind caught the bow pushing it to starboard. Drago fought the wheel trying to bring it back but the boat was committed. The next wave hit them at an angle, catching the side of the bow rolling the boat. The two men hung on doggedly. Another wave rolled in but the pilot got her headed into it and again the bow dug in before rising.
Garrison knew aircraft. He knew the feeling of a fully powered craft as it responded to the controls. Ships were not that much different. When an aircraft was damaged or an engine quit it did not respond the same. It was sluggish just like this boat was. She was slow to come around and she dug in deeper before rising. Was the engine losing power? If it quit… He had to check but as he turned to go an iron grip on his arm stopped him and Drago pulled him to the wheel. He yelled something then headed for the engine room. Garrison grabbed the wheel and fought the wind and the waves. Without his military conditioning he would not have lasted long. As it was, he soon felt the burn in his arms and shoulders.
For a novice, he thought he was doing reasonably well until another wave loomed. This time the trough was narrower so the boat was still sliding down when the crest broke crashing over not just the bow but the wheelhouse as well. The force blew in the windows and slammed Garrison into the back wall.
"Well, boys, it looks like we have the place to ourselves," said Casino as he stretched. "Hey Actor, why don't you call up some of your dames and invite them over."
"I am sorry to disappoint you, but I do not know any 'dames'.
"You know what I mean."
Further conversation was cut off by the arrival of the Sargent Major. "All right you lads, the Left-tenant left a schedule of activities. First on the list is to warm up with calisthenics. Hey!" He watched as the men rose and headed for the door. "Where do you think you're going? These dished have to be washed before you leave the kitchen."
"Make up your mind; dishes or 'grab ass'?" groused Casino.
"You know that the dishes must be done. When they are dried and put away you are to assemble outside."
Half an hour later the Brit was still waiting. Stalling was a major talent for the cons.
Water slapped his face and tried to get up his nose. He sputtered and ended up gulping more water which brought coughing and spitting as he tried to clear his airway and rid his mouth of the taste of salt. He was treading water but his arms and shoulders ached. Fearing for his life he pushed on. Blinking the water from his eyes he tried to look around but all he saw was more water. All around was grey sky and grey water. Even the air was grey. On and on it went, up one side of the wave and down the other. Where was the land? How far out had they been and what had happened to the boat? Where was Drago? Had he made it out? He had been heading for the engine room. Garrison turned all around but all he saw was water; wall after wall of it.
Shaking the water from his eyes he continued to search. Was that something? Dark patches that could have been wreckage lightened as they crested. He kept looking but the salt water was irritating his eyes. Nothing mattered but surviving. Push on.
Another mirage appeared and he watched as he rose to the crest. The wind drove water into his face but he kept watching. Yes. It was something. He had to get to it. Drago might still be there. He had to get there. Normally he would have just swum to it, he was a strong swimmer, but his arms were leaden and he could not lift them clear of the water. He looked longingly, so close but so far. It was true. He couldn't get there; he was going to die. Drowned, lost at sea, missing in action.
What would happen to the guys; his men?
Actor, the ultimate con man. He appeared serious in his commitment to the cause when he was interviewed. Then when they started their training he changed, taking nothing seriously; working half-heartedly. He had begun to doubt him until they were on the ground and he became all business. Back home he reverted again. It took a few missions before he truly became part of the team encouraging the others in subtle way to do the same. He had become his second and on occasion he took over. His advice was invaluable. Would a new leader accept him as he was? Would he be able to see past the criminal record to the man? Would Actor accept another leader? He had tested Garrison before accepting him. Would the next man measure up?
Casino was opinionated and abrupt but he was good. He had a talent with safes and locks that was absolutely necessary in their business. It was his personality that would get him into trouble. He saw a problem and he let everyone know it. Something or somebody rubbed him the wrong way and he was quick to air his beef. The truth was that he irritated a lot of people including him but if you listened, Casino was often right. His concerns were valid. Would the next man take the time to get to know the man enough to see below his antagonistic exterior? And would Casino let him?
And Goniff. He had been taken on for his talents, nothing else as had the others, but it had not taken Garrison long to see that he brought more to the team than just sticky fingers. He was an optimist. He looked on the bright side, he brought fun and as distracting as that was it did ease the tension that inevitably rose when men worked as close together as they did. This trait and his propensity for high jinks often led to trouble. The barkeeper at the local pub knew them all personally. So did the local Bobbies. Would the next man see past the problems be created? Would he see his worth?
Then there was Chief. He was sullen, he refused to participate, he and Casino bickered and fought but damn it the man was loyal and dedicated. He would give his life for him. Would Chief transfer that loyalty? If the new man tried to force his participation it would not go well. Chief would not be forced. If pushed, he pushed back. Chief would push himself right back to prison.
Four misfits that he had taken and formed into a team, a damn good one. It would be a waste to throw all that away, either by disbanding them or putting the wrong man in place. The only way he could save this team was to get back to them alive.
Picturing his men he kicked once and then again for Actor who had become the best second a leader could want. For Casino who kept him on his toes but had never let him down he pushed his arm out and pulled himself forward. For Goniff, whose smile revealed whether he had done good or whether he had been up to something he would hear about later, he kicked. For Chief who had given him his trust he reached out with his other arm and pulled. Each pull and each kick brought him that little bit closer. 'For you Actor, for you Casino, for you Goniff, for you Chief'. His fingers brushed the rough plank. Another kick, another reach and the plank pulled away as it slid down the other side of the wave. Again he kicked and pulled, shaking the water from his eyes until he again pulled close to the raft as they began to rise up the other side.
For Actor, his stiff tight hand clawed for purchase and pulled. For Goniff, his left hand reached out, found a hold and pulled. For Casino, he kicked as he pulled himself up onto the raft. For Chief, his right hand reached out and he pulled. For Actor he pulled with his left hand. For Casino he pulled and kicked until he was as far out of the water as he could get and then he rode the waves. Occasionally a wave broke over him but at least he was no longer swimming, he was no longer dying, no longer drowning. He would live. He would rest for a bit then look for Drago.
"What are you doing?" demanded the shocked woman's voice.
"He might still be alive," answered another woman's voice, patient but under stress.
"Leave him," the first voice commanded. "He'll be dead soon enough."
"I don't care. Help me pull him out of the water. The tide's coming in."
"Are you mad? He's the enemy. Push him back out."
"He's a man, a human."
"He's a man who will kill you when he wakes up."
The man in the water heard this but he did not understand. The language they spoke was foreign to him and he was too tired to care. He was too tired to care that someone or something was pulling on his coat, pulling his arm. He was aware but in a dreamlike state, hearing, feeling but unable to do anything, even open his eyes. It didn't matter anyway. He was in enemy territory so whoever it was would turn him in. Might as well die here. The pulling stopped.
"If you won't help me then get out of the way." The previously calm voice was angry now.
"I'm trying to protect you. If anyone sees you, you'll be tried as a traitor."
"What if he was your Luan and someone found him? What then, would you say to leave him to drown?"
There was a moment of silence then the pulling resumed. The action was not smooth but came in fits and starts, sometimes one side and then the other, sometimes together, each jerk painfully pulling his shoulder joints. Finally the pulling stopped.
"I'll wait here. Go get the cart."
"No. I'll wait, you go."
"What, don't you trust me? You're wet and you need to move to get warm." The words were terse.
"I'm fine. You can go faster than I. Go."
There was silence other than the sound of the waves and a few gulls. He thought he was alone until he felt the gentle touch on his face, brushing away the sand and seaweed. Then he heard the humming, a gentle soothing sound. With the sound and touch he could pretend he was safe, he could die now, stop fighting and just let go. His world dissolved.
He awoke slowly; the sounds and smells from his dreams became stronger as they meshed with reality. He opened his eyes to almost darkness and the smell of wood smoke. The dimness flickered off to the right so he turned to look. There in front of the fire was a woman dressed in a long dress with a shawl over her head and shoulders. With only the fire for light it was hard to tell what colour, everything was brown and grey. She moved away from the fire, almost vanishing in the shadows, revealing the profile of a second woman sitting by the fire. She wore a similar shawl and long skirt.
There were two women in his dream. Was he still dreaming or was he awake and really here in this tiny cottage. Where was here? He had been heading north; his destination was … What was his destination? He was on a boat with… Drago. His mind flashed to the fisherman standing on the dock, standing at the wheel fighting the storm. He had gone below and that was the last he remembered. He was dead and that thought saddened him. He hadn't known him, hadn't really trusted him but he had agreed to take him out in the rough weather. He had risked his life and he had lost. Worse, Garrison remembered trying to go to the hold but Drago had stopped him. Did he have anyone waiting for him, worrying and then grieving when he did not return?
Across from the seated figure was a rack with what looked like clothing hanging to dry. On the floor was a pair of shoes, his…
Garrison's hand moved without prompting. Skin on skin; he was not wearing anything. Those were his clothes hanging by the fire. He was naked in a strange room, somewhere, with two women with nothing but a coarse blanket covering him. From his angle he was close to the floor but not on it. It was a bed of sorts and from the feel it was a straw pallet.
His motion caught the attention of the woman by the fire. She turned to look but that threw her face into darkness. Was she pleased, angry, afraid? He couldn't tell. The second woman approached but her face was also hidden.
Wanting to remain nonthreatening he rose slowly up onto his elbows. The blanket slid down so he grabbed it and pulled it up. Did Italian women of indeterminate age find a half-naked man threatening? Wait. He had not undressed himself, someone had. Still he did not want to offend them. At this point he was totally reliant on them.
"Il mio nome è Garrison." Hopefully his accent wasn't too bad. Unfortunately that was about all he knew in Italian.
"Çfarë po thotë ai?"
"Italisht."
That didn't sound like Italian. Maybe it was some dialect. "Parlez-vous français?" asked Garrison. That didn't work how about, "Sprechen sie Deutsch?"
"Gjermanet qen," spat the standing woman.
That was the wrong choice. There had not been a response to Italian or French and he feared using English. Maybe there was someone else who spoke French. He gestured to his clothes hoping they were dry enough to put on. The one by the fire shook her head. Were they still wet or were they trying to keep him there? This was not going well. He sat watching, waiting.
The one by the fire spoke resulting in a grunt from the other. She moved off then headed back to the fire. She did something at the fire and then brought him a bowl of a thin stew that smelled good. His "Grazie," went unanswered.
After he had eaten he considered his situation. First thing was to get his clothes and then try to figure out where he was. Once that was established he would have to find a way to get to his destination. He had a mission to complete. Was he far enough north? Too far? On the off chance he asked, "San Severo?" He was ignored.
"Per favore." He gestured to his clothes. The one who brought the food ignored him but the one by the fire reached over to check. Standing slowly she checked then pulled his shirt off the rack. She made her way over to the pallet and he realized she limped badly. He felt bad about making her walk so he sat up and reached for the shirt. As she handed it to him he saw the smile. She was not beauiful but her smile was genuine. His "Grazie," was answered with, "JType text or a website address or translate a document.
u jeni të mirëpritur."
That wasn't Italian, was it? What did Actor say? He thought back but it didn't come. Damn. Actor was right and he wished he had been able to bring him. As it was he was alone so he would do what he could. What was …? Prego. That was Italian for welcome and that didn't sound even close to what she had said, assuming she had said 'you're welcome.'
Garrison luxuriated in the warmth of the material as he put his shirt on. The cottage was not warm but the shirt held the heat of the fire. The pants remained where they were so they were probably still damp. He hoped they would soon be dry because at some point he was going to have to go outside.
Back at their base the four cons were trying to decide what to do today.
"Let's go to London. There's a part of town where…" started Goniff.
"Garrison is not here," stated Actor.
"All the better; what he doesn't know…"
"He cannot bail us out from."
"Oh yeah." That idea was tossed out without seeing the details.
"Shall we rejoin the Sargent-Major?" They had waited until his attention was taken by one of the guards before slipping away.
"Might as well," answered Casino. "You know, I never thought staying here would be so…"
"Boring?"
"Yeah" Three men were sitting on the back step smoking. Chief was sitting on the balustrade with his feet braced against the newel post tossing pebbles into the urn that once held flowers, now dead from neglect.
"Can we still go down to the Doves for a pint?" asked Goniff.
"As long as we remember that Garrison…"
"Yeah, I know."
"So when's he coming back?"
"Who knows?"
"Think they'd tell us if he was in trouble?"
Casino gave a resounding "No."
"So how will we know?"
"That's the worst of it. We don't."
"What if his family called about an emergency?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know, a death in the family…"
"Or an illness. Is his Mother still alive? If she was dying and asked to see her son, would they tell her when he was coming back?"
"Probably not. They'd take a message with a promise to have him call her."
"Yeah. Heartless bastards."
"There must be some sort of con that would get them to tell us."
The wind ruffled Garrison's hair as he stood at the edge of the beach. Row after row of waves rolled in crashing on the shore. Farther out the undulating swells continued to roll in, exploding into white foam as they neared the shore. The wind, smelling of salt and fish, had dropped considerably but the sea still ran high. Overhead the clouds still hung low obscuring the sun. Out at the horizon the clouds lightened where they met the dark water. He let his eyes drift up and down the coast. There was no mention and no sign of a body. I'm on my own, he thought, with a mission to complete and somewhere along that coast was his destination. He had been headed there by boat. Looking out at the white caps he knew the draught was too shallow for a boat to pick him up here even if he could signal for a pickup. He would have to determine his location and walk.
Less than half an hour ago he had awakened and risen from his place by the fire. The two women who had rescued him had tried to get him to spend another night in their bed but he had refused. Finally relenting they had climbed into the bed and he lay by the fire, though he was sure they had slept in their clothes as protection from him. The taller woman, who he named Crow, definitely did not like him. Her tone was curt and he was sure what she said to him was not lady-like. The other woman, the one with the limp, would smile and talk kindly to him. If the one was Crow then she was Swan. These names were not really suitable. Crow had lighter hair than Swan and with her limp she was not graceful. It was their personalities he had named. Maybe he was being unfair to Crows.
On the other hand he didn't know them. What were these two women doing living under these primitive conditions here on the coast? They appeared to live here alone. How did they survive? The Crow was protective of Swan, stepping in, sometimes rudely, to take over heavier jobs like lifting the heavy cooking pot onto its hook over the fire but she also gently helped her with her shawl. There was a connection between these two. Were they sisters? That would explain some of Crow's reaction to his presence. She feared for her younger handicapped sister's safety. She was protecting her.
He could not hate her for that. He just wished he could reassure her that he meant no harm and would help if he could and he would leave as soon as possible.
Was his presence here endangering them? Did they know he was an American agent, a spy? That would put them in danger. He had to get out of here but first he had to know where he was. If he drew a map could they show him where he was? He would have to try. Until then he memorized how the light lay and the angle of the waves. At this point it was the only cues he had.
Motion farther down the shore caught his eye and he watched. The shape moved with the familiar awkward gait of the Swan. She moved to the water's edge and stood looking out to the sea. She looked forlorn standing out there with the wind blowing her skirt and her shawl. Was she looking to escape as he was or was she waiting for someone to return? He wished he could help her.
A sound behind him drew his attention and he turned. Crow was standing farther up the dirt track watching him.
"Marinar?" she asked when he approached. She almost sounded sad. Had she lost someone to the sea? Maybe her husband was a sailor and she waited for his return or knew that he would never return.
"No," and he shook his head. His automatic reaction had been to answer in English and he feared her reaction. No, he was sure Actor used that as well. He was going to have to get Actor to teach him more Italian or make sure he brought him in the future. Fortunately she gave no indication, just nodded.
Di dove sei?"
He had no idea how to answer that but if she was talking to him he might as well ask his question. Looking around he found a stick and in a clear spot on the track he drew a rough map of the east coast of Italy. She looked but showed no recognition. Did she not know? Maybe his map was too crude. He poked a spot and said "Roma" and then another that he named, Naples, Napoli." Still nothing. He continued with Lecce and Bari. Now he was running out of names. He tried to picture what other cities were along the southern coast. It was possible she only knew this immediate area. In desperation he marked Taranto.
"Tirana," she corrected and pointed inland back over her right shoulder.
Progress, he thought. Now we're getting somewhere. Mentally he placed himself on the map. If the angle was right then he had to be near Bari. How was it that she knew Taranto but not Bari? That had to be closer. There was also the problem of the terrain. The southern coast of Italy was flat. This was hilly. Was he maybe, farther north? How far before it became this hilly? He tried to visualize the topographical map of the Italian coast and failed. Where was he?
He had to go north. That would take him closer to his destination. It was going to be a long walk but if he could get to a road he might be able to get a ride. The language was going to be a bit of a problem, the local dialect was so different. It must be because of being cut off out here in the hills. Other than the dirt track he had not seen any roads but maybe over the hill. The path he had taken to get here ended here. There was no road north so he would have to back track until he found one. It was time to go.
He was hungry, having eaten nothing since … yesterday, but he couldn't ask. He turned and headed back toward the cottage, aware that Crow was not with him. When he checked he saw her still standing there gazing out to sea. Was she waiting for someone too or was she just looking over her sister?
His shoes were stiff from the soaking so he was going to have to be careful of blisters. His socks would give him some cushioning but with the amount of walking he was going to have to do the results were inevitable.
He paused at the old stone church. It looked ancient but still intact. The interior was small and the road was a dirt track so he was unlikely to meet anyone along here. Having already made sure he had left nothing behind, he passed the side track that led to the cottage and continued on down the path.
He had hoped to find a road but instead he came to an intersection. To his right led up the hill into the trees. The left was the direction he wanted but straight ahead was the problem. There was the sea, ahead and behind. One problem he could put behind him but the problems were mounting and he couldn't ignore them. The language could be a dialect, the hilly terrain could be his unfamiliarity but this… Face it, he wasn't in Italy. Then where the Hell was he and how did he get back there?
As he approached the cottage he saw the cart and the donkey out front. Was this a friend or had he brought them trouble?